


to one alone and lost, a different thing

by Ink



Series: as long as we both [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, KATSUKI YUURI TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THIS, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9352271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink/pseuds/Ink
Summary: He offers it indulgently, like a concession to one of Victor’s childish moods. Victor can tell he doesn’t mean it. How did he miss this? He wonders, not for the first time–he’d gotten so many things wrong in those early days–how little he really understands Katsuki Yuuri. Maybe they’re more alike than he ever knew, the champion and the shooting star. Bearing the weight with a faltering smile, throwing themselves into program after program, new, better, different, more; trying desperately to rewrite a story that seemed fixed and unfeeling. Giving it up, finally, when nothing worked.No.No, that can’t be right.AU, diverges from canon post-ep 11. Victor tries and fails to corner Yuuri after the Grand Prix Finals.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [this poem.](http://inkstrangle.tumblr.com/post/154599372420/xxxix)
> 
> This was drafted pre-finale and is not compliant with episode 12, er, like, at all. I think it can be read as an AU, but I'll leave that to you to judge. ;)

When the final scores are posted, Yuuri doesn’t scowl or wince or even look upset; instead he glances back at Victor with that sad, resigned smile plastered to his face and says, “Sorry,” as though he has anything to apologize for, as though losing is some wrong he’s done _Victor_ –and only that. As though he’s already accepted the outcome, and it might not matter at all. **  
**

He doesn’t know why Yuuri’s shut him out, so suddenly and completely. He hates it.

“Don’t,” he says, and Yuuri does wince at that–drops his gaze, staring at his own clenched fists, and no, that’s all wrong, too. “You were fine. You skated very well,” he tries again, which is pathetically insufficient and nothing like what he wanted to say anyway, not that what he wants to say is more than a screaming cacophony of _why? why? why?_

Yuuri has turned the smile back on. “Thank you,” he says, “it means so much to me that you think so,” as though Victor is a reporter he’s trying to placate, which, frankly, is the kind of response that probably deserves.

 

*

 

Yuuri ducks out of the media circle early, citing weariness. Victor stays and smiles as he fields questions about his future, saying nothing of substance at all. He’s good at this. It helps that he has no idea himself. Maybe after this he’ll take a vacation: he hasn’t had one in twenty years, after all. Somewhere bright and sunny and very, very far away from ice rinks or the reporters who cover them. He’ll bring Makkachin, let her run around the beach while he takes obnoxious selfies to send to Yakov. Yes, that sounds positively idyllic.

Is he going to return to skating after this? He searches himself for the quiet thread of resolve from two days ago– _no, no, no, I’m never going back, and I’m all right_ –and comes up empty. “We’ll see,” he says aloud. That’s certainly going to make a few papers. Fans will gossip. Yurio will probably be furious.

He mentions exactly none of this when he catches up to Yuuri, the two of them making polite, stilted conversation in the hotel lobby. “I don’t know,” he says instead, mouth caught in honesty and slow to close. “I haven’t made any plans yet.”

“You should–consider it, at least.” Yuuri’s mouth twitches in what might be an attempt at a smile. “Everyone always talks about how much they miss you.”

As though Victor cares. “Ah, and I can hardly disappoint my fans, can I?” The end of that sentence comes out strangled. He covers it with a flash of teeth (he might be a hypocrite). “What about you? Will you be looking for a new coach?”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything for several–long–seconds, and Victor scrambles to fill the silence. “It’s fine if you’ve already found one–”

“ _No,_ ” Yuuri says quickly, looking discomfited–it’s the first time Victor’s looked at him all day and not seen something like a blank slate, wiped clean of anything real. He clears his throat. “I mean–no, I haven’t found a coach. Haven’t been looking for one. Um.” He fidgets with the lapel of his jacket. “Actually–I thought I might just stop after this, actually.”

Might just _stop–_

“Excuse me,” Victor says blankly. “I think I must have misheard you.”

Yuuri doesn’t sigh or roll his eyes or repeat himself; he folds his arms over his chest, glancing away, and when no reply comes it occurs to Victor that he, in fact, has heard perfectly, and Yuuri is the one who has taken leave of his senses. “You can’t just–quit. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” He still won’t look at Victor. “Why not?”

“Because–because–” He gropes for something to say that isn’t because you can’t, that’s why! “You can’t possibly–be done. The season isn’t even over yet–”

“You think I should finish it out, then.” There’s no good answer to that, and Yuuri smiles at him like he knows it. He’s been helpless in front of that smile so many times. “I’ll consider that.”

He offers it indulgently, like a concession to one of Victor’s childish moods. Victor can tell he doesn’t mean it. How did he miss this? He wonders, not for the first time–he’d gotten so many things wrong in those early days–how little he really understands Katsuki Yuuri. Maybe they’re more alike than he ever knew, the champion and the shooting star. Bearing the weight with a faltering smile, throwing themselves into program after program, new, better, different, more; trying desperately to rewrite a story that seemed fixed and unfeeling. Giving it up, finally, when nothing worked.

No.

No, that can’t be right.

“Yuuri,” he starts, which is a problem, because all he can think is _why, why, why, did you really hate it that much, why didn’t you tell me, what did I do wrong, tell me and I’ll fix it, I’ll do better, do anything, I’ll be better to you and I’ll play whatever part you need me to, however you like, as long as you like–_

His throat hurts. He reaches out blindly and grasps Yuuri by the shoulder. He can feel Yuuri startle, his exhale of breath: Yuuri puts one hand on Victor’s chest, gently, as if to push him aside, except partway through the hand becomes a fist and he is clutching at Victor’s shirt instead, pulling him down and in.

Victor’s mouth opens, shocked, unprotesting, against Yuuri’s. The kiss is harsh and bruising, almost angry. Yuuri has one hand wrapped around Victor’s tie; the other clutches at the back of his neck, tangling in his hair. “Yuuri,” he gasps again, caught, helpless, straining forward: Yuuri’s back hits the wall with a thud as Yuuri rises up to meet him, and there is just him, his mouth, the blood in Victor’s palms where he is touching Yuuri and the roar of his own blood in his ears. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, hands crawling over each other in the middle of the lobby of the Hotel Prince. It doesn’t occur to him to care.

He has been privileged to see so many different shades of Yuuri, Yuuri in every season: at separate times he has been shy, demanding, stubborn, jubilant, unbearably tender. This, though, the urgency, the rapid heartbeat and the viselike grip, is new. There is nothing distant about it. Nothing final. He does not kiss Victor like someone who is done with him.

Victor breaks off the kiss and sucks in a breath, forehead still pressed to Yuuri’s, hands knotted in his jacket. He can’t–he doesn’t want to let go, can’t escape the premonition that the moment he does, Yuuri will slip through his fingers like a fish in a stream. His head is buzzing: a thousand questions darting every which way and then, somehow, empty water, because there isn’t anything he wants to ask, not really. He can’t think of anything to say because the only thing in him is stay.

Yuuri’s eyes are shut tight, his breath coming in fast puffs, warm on Victor’s skin. The hand at the back of Victor’s neck squeezes and then, slowly, stiffly, goes slack.

“Don’t quit,” Victor says, the words tumbling out without thought or intention, and then, more softly, “don’t go, Yuuri.”

There is a very long silence. Yuuri still has not opened his eyes. “I–” he starts. The sound comes out choked. “I–no. No.”

He never did get used to this part. The heavy, leaden feeling in his chest, everything in him screaming _wrong, wrong, wrong_ : the way only another person can make you feel.

“No,” Yuuri says again, and it sounds stronger this time, carried aloft by a kind of wide-eyed fervor. “I–I’m done, now. I came here to prove something–for the answer to a question–and I have it now. It’s answered. There’s nothing left for me here. So–I’m sorry, a-and thank you for everything, but–”

Victor reaches out frantically, a second too late, to catch Yuuri as he bolts.

 

*

 

In the end, not really knowing what else to do, he heads down to the banquet. It’s well under way by the time he arrives, the champagne flowing, some pop tune booming over the speakers in what he thinks may be an attempt to summon some of the wild energy of last year’s affair. It doesn’t seem to have worked very well. He catches sight of Yurio surrounded by a pack of officials, looking stunned and pleased; Mila chatting up one of the other ladies’ finalists with a sly grin; Christophe leaning against the far wall, watching the proceedings with amusement.

Yuuri is–

_There._ On the other side of the hall, half-blocked by the figure of Phichit, who appears to be waving a glass of champagne under his nose. Victor shuffles to the side, trying to get a better look.

Yuuri spots him and immediately turns white. In one swift motion, he grabs the glass from Phichit’s fingers, downs it in a single gulp, and disappears into a crowd of sponsors, Phichit in tow.

Victor realizes his mouth is hanging open, and clamps it shut. Some wild part of him is contemplating the wisdom of just launching himself at Yuuri’s knees, crowd of people be damned, and begging not to be sent away. How many tabloids would that be in the next morning? More importantly, would it _work?_

“Trouble in paradise?” someone says in his ear, and he isn’t at all surprised to turn and see–

“Chris.” He eyes the two champagne flutes Chris is holding, one in each hand. “Please tell me one of those is for me.”

Chris holds them both out. “They’re both for you, my friend, because quite frankly, you look awful.”

“I know,” he says plaintively; he’s trying for playboy-dramatic, faux-crushed, but even to his own ears it sounds pathetic.

 

*

 

_I just don’t understand. I keep–_ This sentence needs more alcohol, he decides. _Everything I do is wrong. I thought I was finally getting it right, but it’s all wrong, everything is wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it._

Chris hands him another glass of champagne. Chris is a good friend, but this party really needs vodka. He realizes he’s said that aloud. Chris pats him bracingly on the shoulder. Across the room Yuuri is talking with one of the pairs couples, or possibly one of the pairs couples is talking at him. There is a fixed quality in his stare, as though he would like to be somewhere else. Phichit disappears, then reappears at his elbow, carrying an entire bottle of champagne.

_You should get me one of those,_ he says mournfully.

_Now, now, you don’t want to end up worse off than he is,_ Chris says patiently, raising his own glass to his lips.

_Noooooo, I do._ Yuuri presses the bottle in his hand absently to his mouth, spilling some on his shirt in the process. _Chris, what happens if I can’t fix it?_

*

 

He drinks–well. He drinks rather more than is dignified. Chris is an enabler of vice. He holds his liquor better than Yuuri–possibly because he’s been out drinking more than three times in his life–so he does remember–

Yurio, vicious scowl in place, nose at the level of his chin, glaring up at him, informing him that _you are both completely pathetic_ and _can’t you even make up your own mind?_

Chris, tilting his head up to look in his eyes, murmuring, _is this really what happens when you decide to get serious? I shall have to take care that I never do._

Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri at the edge of a crowd, edging away from his gaze; Yuuri glancing back and glancing back when he thinks Victor’s not looking; Yuuri halfway through the night, dragging heavily, a pronounced sway in his step. Yuuri a heavy weight against his chest, hair dishevelled and glasses askew, slurring things Victor desperately wants to believe he didn’t dream.

 

*

 

Yuuri across from him, holding himself stiffly, fists clenched and face pinched and pale: _it’s not–please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be._ And then, _this was just supposed to be for the Grand Prix Finals in the first place, so–_

Victor tried to protest–hadn’t they said, hadn’t they promised–but when Yuuri turned back towards him the shade had gone down over his face, closing Victor off from any idea of what was happening within.

(A memory: _I hated it. It felt like she was intruding on my feelings._ )

At the banquet they–talk is probably too generous a term for it. There is crying and hugging and grandiose promises whispered into the lapel of Victor’s jacket and the top of Yuuri’s hair. They almost certainly make a scene. Eventually Victor sobers up just enough to realize they should probably not be in the banquet hall anymore, and drags Yuuri into the hotel elevator, where he slumps against the guardrail, his eyes falling shut. “I missed you,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. “I miss you.”

Victor stares blankly at the wall of buttons. Which floor were they on again? “I didn’t go anywhere,” he says. “Yuuri, what floor are we on?”

“You have this, this,” Yuuri waving an arm aimlessly, his words slurred, “this _face_ , that you do. With the smile.” A pause. “It’s not you. I hate it,” he adds, with a pout.

He turns around. “You did it first,” he says, and it comes out sharp, hurt. He probably should not have said that. It feels like the kind of thing he wouldn’t have said, if he weren’t drunk.

Silence. “We’re on floor ten,” Yuuri says.

_I had to,_ he adds, once they’re back in the hotel room. _I had to, but–you’ll remember what I said, Victor, right? You’ll think about it? I–I promise I’ll–_

“Water,” he remembers saying, _you need water,_ that seems like a thing people who are drunk need, and when he returns with two of the plastic cups from the hotel, filled up in the sink, Yuuri tips back his head to down his in one gulp before kissing Victor on the mouth.

Victor spills the water. It’s–the kiss is good. He doesn’t remember much else of it. Yuuri’s face is flushed, because he’s been drinking, and his lips are cool, from the water, and he’s holding onto Victor’s lapel with both hands, using Victor’s jacket to keep himself upright. Victor never, ever wants to stop.

Then Yuuri hooks a leg around his ankle and sends him sailing into their shared bed, and as he leans over Victor, expression muzzy with drunkenness but clearly wanting, Victor discovers that he does, actually, have a compelling reason to stop.

(That look in his eyes–it’s too much, somehow.)

He finds Yuuri’s shoulders with his hands, feeling uncoordinated and clumsy, and pushes him–carefully–away. Undisguised hurt flits across Yuuri’s face. “Victor–what–”

His heart is beating very fast. Yuuri’s lips are red, his eyes bright. Victor wants to tug him down and roll on top of him and forget everything, forget the impenetrable silence and the media smile–Yuuri _wants_ him. Here, now. But–

“I don’t want to do anything you won’t remember,” he hears himself say. His hands are cold. Yuuri stares down at him: blinks once, twice, in apparent incomprehension.

He can’t bring himself to let go.

 

*

 

Eventually, Yuuri falls asleep, looking fitful as he dozes, still half-dressed. Victor tucks the covers around him and stays up, the fuzzy immediacy fading from him bit by bit, as the clock creeps towards the early hours of the morning and the sun begins to rise.

 

*

 

_–and I’ll–I’ll do better, next year, so–_

_Victor, I’ll work even harder, and I’ll land the quad flip and–and we can add more jumps! I’ll definitely win next year, for sure, so–if you stay–you definitely won’t regret it. You’ll see. Just–just for one more year. I won’t ask for, for more than that, so–Victor–_

_–please–_

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr [here.](http://inkstrangle.tumblr.com/)


End file.
